The eunuch escaping from the Macedonian camp and bearing to Darius the news of his wife Statira’s death, extolled the forbearance and chivalrous courtesy of Alexander toward the Persian captives and admiringly cried out “Alexander is as gentle after victory as he is terrible on the field.” And Darius, so late King of Persia, tallest and handsomest man of his time, husband of Statira, most bewitchingly beautiful woman of Asia; but now alas! an uncrowned king, loser of Arbela, a fugitive, bereft of sons, daughters, wife—nevertheless on hearing of Alexander’s generous conduct towards the royal captives exclaimed in tears, “Ye gods of my family, and of my kingdom, if it be possible, I beseech you to restore the declining affairs of Persia, that I may leave them in as flourishing a condition as I found them, and have it in my power to make a grateful return to Alexander for the kindness which in my adversity he had shown to those who are dearest to me. But if, indeed, the fatal time be come, which is to give a period to the Persian monarchy, if our ruin be a debt which must be paid to the divine jealousy, and the vicissitude of things, then, I beseech you, grant that no man but Alexander may sit upon the throne of Cyrus.” And when slowly bleeding to death from wounds inflicted by his base betrayer, Bessus, satrap of a province into which Darius had fled for safety—the dying monarch begged of Polystratus, a chance attendant, for a little water: and on receiving it he said that it had become the last extremity of his ill fortune to receive benefits and not be able to return them. “But Alexander,” said he, “whose kindness to my mother, my wife and my children I hope the gods will recompense, will doubtless thank you for your humanity to me. Tell him, therefore, in token of my acknowledgment, I give him this right hand,” with these words he took hold of Polystratus’ hand and died.
The man who could inspire such sentiments of grateful admiration into the heart of his dying enemy was more than mortal.
Plutarch tells us that Alexander, coming up at that moment, gazed with painful emotion upon the dead form of Darius. And taking the cloak from off his own shoulders he covered with it the prostrate form of his late foe, and gazing down upon the fierce dead comely face—he wept.
Philosophies.
All the philosophies of the sleepy East and their antitheses of the aggressive West seem to have receptively influenced the myriad-minded Alexander.
Pride, not vanity, but pride essentially one with the chords of being, expressed itself in the words “And were I not Alexander I would be Diogenes.” Either highest or lowest, all or nothing. Earth as kingdom or—a tub; no compromise, no half way, absolutely and unconditionally either one extreme or the other: this seeming perversity in the makeup of many men of genius has not been sufficiently considered; it is not psychologically understood; there is something humanly attractive about it; something young-world young and something old, old as the heart of man. And this perverse pride was the common link between Alexander and Diogenes, and by it each understood the other: to the former, indeed, fate awarded the earth-kingdom and to the latter—the tub; but these extremes were, by the common link, essentially one.
The Gymnosophists, or wise men of India, whom Alexander consulted, could not have deeply impressed the mind of the pupil of Aristotle, for, as Plutarch tells us, he laughed at them and sent them away with many presents.
Yet the sacrificial death of Calanus, one of these seers, could not fail to affect forcibly the susceptible mind of Alexander. Jests, dreams, auspices, oracles, theories, sophisms, philosophies, metaphysical speculations in general—well, these are agreeably adjustable; maybe so maybe not so; and when looked at too logically they can all scamper away and hide themselves elusively in Symbolism: but death, death in flames, self-sought, self-devised, self-suffered—that is real, that is awful.
On the day of his death and whilst erecting his funeral pile Calanus talked cheerfully with the Macedonians and urged them to drink deep and enjoy the passing hours. He commended himself to Alexander, whom, he said, he doubted not but that he should soon see again at Babylon. Then when the pyre was finished, he set it on fire, sprinkled himself, and cutting off some of his hair, threw it into the flame as a first-offering of the sacrifice: he then mounted the pyre, lay down calmly and covered his head in his robe. He moved not as the crackling flames drew near, nor might any one note the least tremor of fear in his limbs as the fire fed on them, nor did any sigh or moan escape from his lips: tho’ what contortions of agony may have twisted themselves on his face could not be known for his head and shoulders were hid in his robe.
Alexander stood by and watched the scene. At first he thought to interpose, but learning that such was the custom of the country, and that the seer, by this sacrificial death, drew to himself high honor and special veneration from the people, he forbore. Alexander’s brow was clouded as he watched the full-fed flames: in his mind re-echoed the threefold question of the Indian seer: Whence are we come; whereby do we live; whither do we go? Ah, whither! in his heart ten thousand recriminative contradictory questionings seethed voiceless, answerless. Alexander turned dejectedly away and retired within his tent.